R is for Revival
by Vikki3
Summary: Amanda's class assignment takes an unexpected turn.


Title: "R" Is For Revival  
(The letter "R" in the ABC Title Challenge: title by Karen)  
  
Author: Vikki  
  
Disclaimer: The SMK characters and the Agency belong to Warner Brothers, Shoot the Moon Productions, and a bunch of other folks more fortunate than I am. I am merely borrowing them for fun without profit. This story is mine, however, so please don't reproduce it without my permission.  
  
Time line: Shortly post-series  
  
Summary: Amanda's class assignment takes an unexpected turn.  
  
Archive: Smkfanfiction with the other ABC Challenge stories.  
  
Feedback: All feedback is welcome and appreciated, on or off list.  
  
  
  
Amanda punched the final data sequence with uncharacteristic force, as though the vigor of her movements would somehow transmit a sense of urgency to the computer's main frame, hidden far below her in the bowels of the underground Agency. Just before she jabbed the "enter" key with a forefinger, she pressed her teeth into her lower lip and held her breath. She was rapidly running out of options.  
  
The electronic deities ignored her silent entreaty. Even though she was almost expecting it, after so many failed attempts, she slumped back in her chair when the words "access denied" flashed in green onto the small, gray screen of her monitor. Exhaling in a long sigh, she closed her eyes and rubbed both temples in an effort to quell her growing frustration and burgeoning headache.   
  
She couldn't figure it out. Why would such basic information be so carefully hidden? Even Lee's security clearance code, borrowed with Mr. Melrose's approval for use in researching her class assignment, had been insufficient to garner any response beyond "invalid entry," "unknown data in required field," or "access denied." It didn't make any sense.  
  
Righting her posture and squaring her shoulders, she opened her eyes and swiveled away from the computer, scooping up the stack of folders perched on the corner of her desk. Flipping the top file open, she studied the neatly typed pages line by line, searching for any clue she might have missed on her first three perusals. There wasn't one. There was only a concise account of a standard security detail, unexceptionable except for the flawless handling by the agent-of-record. The 1981 International Royal Jewel Exhibition had gone off without a single hitch. The closing paperwork had been submitted and approved on a timely basis, and the final report had been stored away almost a half dozen years ago. It probably hadn't been touched again until she had pulled it from dead storage the previous afternoon.   
  
With meticulous care, Amanda restudied each of the cases she had located by cross matching the code name of the agent-of-record on the Royal Jewel file. As far as she could determine, the freshman agent had performed as faultlessly in every succeeding assignment as he had in his first. Fourteen months of exemplary work and then . . . nothing. The trail stopped dead. No, not even dead. When an operative died, his identity appeared on a LDM17 line-of-duty mortality report or a NWR927 non-work-related mortality/morbidity report. But there was no documentation of death or disabling injury. No indication of a good agent gone bad and confronted by a scooch team or a criminal action. No communiqué detailing a resignation or transfer. This agent had simply vanished into thin air, the only remaining evidence of his existence a small heap of yellowed, slightly musty, manila and a few kilobytes of memory in one of the vast databases of the United States government.   
  
With another sigh, Amanda shuffled through the remaining papers on her desk, pulling the blueprints of Franklin Memorial Hall to the top of the clutter. Returning to the Royal Jewel report, she carefully reexamined the location of each security checkpoint and verified that she had ticked off the corresponding area on the blueprint. Then she repeated the process with camera positions, communication lines, guard stations, and perimeter sentries. Chewing absently on the end of a pencil, she tried to imagine that she was a thief or a foreign agent, trying to slip past the Agency's defenses.   
  
It could be done . . . . It had been done.   
  
Franklin Memorial Hall had been used for only two government-hosted events in the past decade. The Royal Jewel Exhibition had been a perfect example of the efficiency and effectiveness of a well-prepared security team; the Multicultural Art Expo, less than a year later, had turned into every agent's worst nightmare. In 1982, shortly after the MAE fiasco, Franklin Memorial Hall had been summarily dropped from the list of approved secure venues.  
  
She had compared the files side-by-side, and the security arrangements seemed to be identical. Either something had changed between the dates of the two events . . . or some small, seemingly insignificant, piece of information had failed to make its way into the Royal Jewel report. She needed to speak to the Royal Jewel agent in order to finish her site evaluation for Beaman's class.  
  
And that was where the mystery began.  
  
She thought it would be simple. She would tap the code name onto her keyboard, and seconds later the computer would spit out a standard background dossier, complete with address, telephone number and great-great-grandmother's maiden name.   
  
When Agency personnel records had been obstinately uninformative, she had taken the next logical step. A little legwork, a few casual inquiries, would certainly yield the information she needed.  
  
She had spoken to David Riley -- christened DaVinci in honor of his first major assignment -- the young operative in charge of the MAE. He had sworn he had followed the Royal Jewel example down the last, minute, detail. But he had shaken his head and shrugged his shoulders when asked about the agent code named "Gem." He had merely used the Royal Jewel report as a reference in setting up his own operation; he had never spoken to Gem. Afterward, he had been too busy mopping up the mess and justifying his actions to give much thought to the identity of his more successful predecessor.   
  
Among the other employees who had been around in the few years before Amanda's life had collided with the Agency, no one seemed to be able to recall the one agent who could help her. It was irritating but not particularly surprising. Field section was a whirlpool of constant, if controlled, motion. Every day, every hour was spent on the fast track, and personnel shifts were part of the daily routine. Acquaintances were transitory, and true friendships were rare. Even internal gossip died a quick death, superseded by newer and juicier tidbits.   
  
She had hoped Lee might recall, but he had spent most of 1981 and 1982 on foreign assignment and, during his periodic return to the States, he had spared little attention for freshman agents and routine domestic agendas.   
  
Mr. Melrose knew, though; she was almost certain of it. He had changed the subject quickly -- almost brusquely -- when Amanda had asked him. Only her deep respect for authority had prevented her from pursuing a topic he had clearly closed. Her deep respect for authority . . . and the uneasy conviction that he would prohibit her search if she pressed the matter.   
  
She had a strong suspicion that Mrs. Marston remembered, too; something had flickered in the receptionist's gray eyes when Amanda had initially questioned her, and her normally stern demeanor had become positively glacial when the younger woman had tried a gentle Class C interrogation.   
  
In a burst of frustrated energy, Amanda swiped at the files, causing them to teeter and slide across her desk, some of the contents spilling out to add to the general disarray. Almost simultaneously, the door to the Q Bureau creaked open. Amanda turned to her left to see Francine Desmond glide into the room, several film canisters clutched loosely in her arms and a faintly supercilious smile pinned to her glossy red lips.   
  
"My, my, your little Miss Perfect image is slipping, isn't it?" Francine said, casting a critical gaze over the unkempt surface of Amanda's desk. "Lee Stetson certainly seems to be rubbing off on you."  
  
"Hello, Francine." Amanda rolled her eyes but suppressed the urge to engage in their usual acerbic banter. Much as she sometimes enjoyed fencing with the sharp-tongued agent, she had work to finish, and she didn't want to lose her train of thought.   
  
Francine set her burden on top of the nearest cabinet and stooped to pick up a folder which had fallen, unnoticed, to the floor during Amanda's brief bout of pique. She stiffened slightly as she glanced at the neat words printed on the upper right corner, then she turned to glance at the other files spread across Amanda's desk. "What are you doing?" she asked, an almost accusatory edge to her voice.  
  
"Research for a class assignment, and I . . . ." Amanda felt another flash of annoyance as she found herself beginning to explain that she had permission to review the files, and she snapped her mouth closed. Francine wasn't her boss, and this assignment wasn't any of her business. Shaking her head, she turned pointedly away, determined to return her focus to the building plans.   
  
Francine set the folder on an empty corner of the desk and picked up a few loose papers, tucking them mechanically into their proper places. Normally, she dropped off any filing in the Q Bureau with the unspoken assumption that Amanda would handle it, but today she seemed inclined to linger . . . even to fuss.  
  
Amanda's already short temper frayed further. First, Francine had treated her like a disapproving operative chiding a civilian aide, and now the other woman was acting like her mother. Amanda bristled at the memory of Dotty West, dish cloth in hand, flitting around the kitchen while Amanda tried to mix a poppy seed cake, swiping at imaginary drops of batter and putting ingredients away the moment Amanda set them onto the counter. Of course, there was always a purpose behind Mother's hovering . . . .   
  
Gritting her teeth, Amanda glared at the other woman. "Look, Francine, if you suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to practice your domestic skills, why don't you go down to maintenance and talk to Ragmop." She paused for a moment and then proceeded, pronouncing each word slowly and distinctly, trying to make her point. "This is not a good time."  
  
"Very funny, Amanda." Francine flashed a saccharine smile. "You looked," she said, with another disdainful glance at the untidy desk, "like you might need a little help; next time I won't bother."   
  
Gradually, the similarity between Dotty's favorite method of ferreting out information and Francine's uncharacteristic helpfulness began to penetrate Amanda's overtaxed brain. She sat back, tilting her head to the side as she considered her coworker's rigid stance and disgruntled expression.   
  
"I'm sorry, Francine; I'm a little testy right now. This report is due tomorrow, and I'm not finding enough information." Amanda waved a hand over her desktop. "I'd really like to interview the agent who handled these cases." Retrieving the Royal Jewel file from the spot where Francine had set it, she opened the cover and then slapped it closed again.   
  
"The report looks complete," Francine said stiffly, taking the Royal Jewel file from Amanda, riffling briefly through it, and handing it back. "When Ephram gives you files to critique, you should stick to critiquing files."  
  
Amanda sighed. "I'm not critiquing the files; I'm doing a site evaluation on Franklin Memorial Hall."  
  
"Franklin wasn't used in any of those cases." Francine motioned briskly at the folders she had been straightening.   
  
Amanda leaned forward, resting both elbows on the desk and cupping her chin in her hands. "You seem pretty familiar with this agent's work," she said slowly, wondering why she hadn't asked Francine earlier. She would have completed her operative training about the same time as Gem and DaVinci.   
  
The only response to Amanda's questioning look was an icy stare.  
  
"Now that I'm thinking about it," Amanda continued, falling back on a tactic that almost never failed to slip under the defenses of anyone who didn't have her own level of patience, "you might be able to help. You transferred over to the Agency in 1979 . . . so you would have finished your training in 1981 . . . unless some of your courses were waived because of your work in the State Department. But even so you should remember most of the people from that year's classes . . . . You have a better memory for details than almost anyone else around here. It's kind of strange, isn't it, that most intelligence operatives have such a poor memory for details . . . .?"   
  
For a moment, Francine seemed to be frozen in position. Then she shrugged and dropped her gaze. "Just drop it, okay?" There was an unexpected note of pleading in the sharp words.   
  
"Okay . . . but if I were Gem, I wouldn't deny it. This is good work."  
  
"This is great work," Francine said with a hint of her usual huffy veneer.   
  
"It's yours, isn't it?" The truth finally dawned, but it still didn't make any sense; Francine was certainly not the type to refuse any credit due her. "This is great work," Amanda repeated in puzzlement. "Why would you try to hide it?"  
  
"Think about it, Amanda." The blonde woman tapped manicured nails, the exact shade of her lipstick, on the wooden surface of the desk. "1981. The year I became a fully qualified intelligence operative . . . and I didn't become Mrs. Jonathan Stone."  
  
"Oh my gosh," Amanda whispered as she made the mental connection.   
  
"Don't say it." Francine cut her off before she could continue. "Gem Stone. Believe me, it wasn't even clever the first few times I heard it, after Jonathan and I got engaged. The novelty wore thin long before he . . . . " As the words trailed off, Francine looked away, and Amanda wondered whether she had actually seen a sheen of moisture in the other woman's eyes.  
  
She could well imagine. Even in an environment as intense as the Agency, there was plenty of water cooler gossip and ribbing among her coworkers. "It must have been really hard for you . . . after. . . ." Hesitantly, she reached out and laid a comforting hand on Francine's wrist, and she was a little surprised when the arm wasn't jerked away. The blonde agent wasn't the most demonstrative person of her acquaintance.  
  
Francine was quiet for a long time but, when she looked up again, her expression was more thoughtful than pained. "Code names are usually permanent, but Billy agreed to put mine out of use." She gave a faint toss of her head. "That was around the time I became his administrative assistant, so I didn't need a code name, and I buried it." A gleam, part pride and part mischief, lit her blue eyes. "As assistant to the section chief, I had enough clearance to bury it deeply. I didn't think I'd even consider using it again . . . "  
  
Amanda offered an encouraging smile. Even though she and Francine weren't exactly friends, she could easily empathize over the disintegration of an intimate relationship. When Joe had walked away, at least she had known where he had gone . . . and why. "I only met Jonathan once, so I don't know whether he was much of a loss, but it's a shame you decided to give up your code name; "Gem" really suits you."  
  
"It does, doesn't it?" Francine paused, fingering the diamond glittering at her right ear. "When Jonathan walked out on me, every time I heard the name, or even saw it," she motioned toward the computer screen, "it was like rubbing salt into an open wound. But now that I'm the one who dumped him . . . I don't know . . . maybe it's time to put the past where it belongs."  
  
"Does that mean you're going to revive Gem?" Amanda pulled a file from the clutter surrounding her and held it hopefully toward the other woman. "Because I really need her. I'll bet she remembers enough about the layout of Franklin Memorial to figure out how two Chinese agents made it past security at the Multicultural Art Expo in 1982."  
  
"She could figure it out," Francine said with a saucy smile, "but she was a stickler for rules; she'd make you do it yourself."  
  
The End  
  



End file.
